


the rescue and adoption of kuroko tetsuya

by pennyofthewild



Series: Agent for Hire [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Attempt at Humor, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Mystery, Restaurants, Run-On Sentences, Shippy Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:29:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29540319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: “Um, Kise-san,” Kagami’s voice resounds from somewhere above their heads, mercifully sparing Ryouta the need to reply, “I assume you’re hiding under the table because you’ve found the thief.”in which Kise is hired to investigate a burglary, and Kagami gets more than he bargained for.(or, the epilogue toAgent for Hire)
Relationships: (minor/background), Akashi Seijuurou/Kise Ryouta, Kagami Taiga & Kuroko Tetsuya, Kise Ryouta/Kiseki no Sedai | Generation of Miracles
Series: Agent for Hire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2170257
Comments: 17
Kudos: 35





	the rescue and adoption of kuroko tetsuya

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the summary, this fic is a (very belated) follow-up of an earlier work, _Agent for Hire_.  
> It can be read as a standalone, but you'll appreciate it more if you read that one first.  
> I have. Notes, and things, but that can wait until after the ~~7000 words of absolute drivel I've got lined up~~ \- so without further ado, let's get started!

_Previously on Agent for Hire: Kise runs into a mysterious blue haired boy in Yoyogi Park, who promptly disappears when Kise tries to establish a rapport with him. Who is the mysterious little boy? Will Kise ever run into him again?_

***

Takao slides his queen across the board. “Checkmate,” he says, lazily, tipping his chair back onto two legs.

  
“Ahh, Takaocchi,” Ryouta says, conceding defeat, “how about we play a round where you don’t use _hawk’s eye_ to your advantage?”

  
Takao shrugs. “Sure, I’m all for it.” He lifts his fringe off his forehead, pulling one of his ridiculous faces: nose scrunched up, one eye shut, tongue protruded in a parody of popular teen idols. The gesture stretches the half-healed shiner decorating one side of his face. He has a predilection for getting into fights with people bigger than him, and it’s only gotten worse since he started moonlighting as an official member of Akashi’s motley crew. Ryouta wonders how he explains the bruises away at the hospital. _Oh, one of the kids kicked me when I tried to listen to his lungs?_ (Ryouta is not sure of the details of Takao’s recruitment, and is somewhat afraid to ask).

  
“But let me warn you, friend, you’d still lose, because, no offense? You suck at chess.”

  
“Hey, it’s not essential to survival,” Ryouta sniffs, “unlike, say, being able to _dodge a punch_ , which you obviously can’t do,” and he tilts his chin at Takao’s bruise.

  
“Oh, you wanna take this outside?” Takao makes a show of pushing up already-rolled up sleeves. It was the first thing he’d done before sitting at the table: drape his labcoat over the back of his chair and fold his sleeves up to the elbows.

  
“By all means, please do.” Midorima looks up from the stack of papers he is poring over, and adds, “make sure a man can’t concentrate, why don’t you,” under his breath.

  
“Shin-chan, you’ve gotta stop acting like a pissy old man,” Takao informs him lightly, fingering his king between his thumb and index finger. “You haven’t hit thirty yet. You’re gonna end up alone and unloved.”

  
“A very agreeable scenario, I assure you,” Midorima snaps back, “especially if that includes being free of you.”

  
Takao replies with a rude gesture, Midorima bristles, Takao laughs at him, and the two of them descend into a practiced, oft-repeated routine. They are so used to arguing at each other Ryouta is sure they don’t even think about what to say anymore. In the same vein, Ryouta can almost guess at the progression of the conversation; he’s heard it often enough to be familiar with where it is going to go –

  
Behind the counter, Murasakibara finishes piping the last of a series of whipped cream rosettes onto his cake. He’s wearing headphones, and is humming under his breath. He probably can’t hear a thing.

  
“And if,” Midorima says, very loudly, “you insist on not studying the way you do you’re going to fail your board certification renewals and – ”

  
“Ah, for God’s sake that’s eight months away Shin-chan, I’ve got plenty of time – ”

  
“Midorimacchi,” Ryouta says, suddenly, “I don’t know if you mean to, but you sound like you _care_ – ”

  
He makes a show of ducking behind the table as Midorima reaches inside his pocket.

  
“Oh dear,” Midorima says in his most expressionless voice, “I seem to be out of tranquilizer. Maim or kill, what a difficult question.”

  
Before he can make up his mind, Satsuki bursts into the café, cheeks pink with the cold.

  
“I’m here with a job opportunity,” she exclaims, and stops, taking in Ryouta crouching behind one of the café tables, Murasakibara behind the counter, transferring his cake onto a plate, Midorima tossing his Browning up and down in the palm of his hand.

  
Satsuki purses her lips. “Ryou-chan, get up off the floor, you’re not five years old. –and Midorin, put the gun away, you’re going to hurt somebody.”

  
Midorima says, “trust me, that was the plan,” but returns his gun to his pocket.

  
“You don’t want to hurt Ryou-chan, not really,” Satsuki tells him, “you just think you do. Kazu-chan, sit down, you’re not going anywhere.”

  
Takao slides surreptitiously back into his chair and props his head on one hand, as if he hadn’t been trying to scram. “Oh, a job?”

  
“Not for you,” Satsuki says, “you and Midorin are assigned to Sei-kun this month, remember?”

  
Takao groans. “I want to quit,” he says, and ignores Midorima’s pointed glare. “Bodyguard duty is so much cooler in movies.”

  
“I don’t care,” Satsuki says, crossing her arms, “now shut up and behave, because I’m going to call the client in.” She pushes the door open, standing in front of it to keep it open. “You can come in, Kagami-kun. I’m sorry for the wait.”

  
A tall, red-headed man ducks into the café, the shoulders of his jacket speckled with snowflakes. Ryouta hadn’t realized it was – is – snowing. He must have missed it, caught up in Midorima and Takao heckling at each other. The cold doesn’t seem to have bothered Kagami, however; unlike Satsuki, pink-cheeked and red-nosed, he looks perfectly comfortable. He must be related to Aomine, Ryouta thinks.

  
Satsuki leads Kagami over to the table Ryouta and Takao are seated at. She slides her coat off, sets it across the back of her chair, and sits down, tucking her hair behind her ear, and gestures for Kagami to take a seat.

  
“You don’t have to stand,” Satsuki chides, “make yourself comfortable, please.”  
He has interesting eyebrows, Ryouta notes – not thick or short or shaved, but _forked_. That’s a new one.

  
“Kagami-kun,” Satsuki says, bringing Ryouta’s attention back to the matter at hand, “you’ve already met Midorin and Kazu-chan, right? This is Kise Ryouta; he’s our small forward,” and she makes a gesture in Ryouta’s direction. Ryouta bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

  
Kagami’s weird eyebrows furrow. “Basketball small forward? –I thought you were a – ”

  
“We were a basketball team,” Satsuki says seriously, “until we became _The Crime Busters_.”

  
Her eyes sparkle. Kagami continues to look very confused. “Uh – ”

  
“Oh, I’m just joking,” Satsuki says, finally, taking pity on the poor man. “Ryou-chan did play SF in high school, though, didn’t you, Ryou-chan?”

  
Ryouta tells her, “Why ask what you already know?”

  
“Sorry, Kagami,” Takao says, not sounding sorry at all, “you’ve just been acquainted with Momoi-san’s idea of an icebreaker.”

  
“Yeah, I sort of figured,” Kagami says, and rubs the back of his neck, something he has probably wanted to do since he walked into Sugar Rush Cafe. “Thanks, I guess?”

  
His Japanese is a little rough around the edges, as if he’s lived out of the country for a while. The States, probably, Ryouta guesses, from the way he pronounces his consonants.

  
“Sure, Kagami-kun, anytime,” Satsuki gives him one of her mind-melting smiles, which really ought to be a _Miracle_ all on their own, and reaches into her coat pocket to retrieve her file.

  
“Okay, now that we’re all acquainted,” she flips the file open, pulling out several sheets of paper, “let’s get started.” She distributes the papers around the table: one to Ryouta, one to Kagami – and gives Takao a considering look. “You know, Kazu-chan, we already know you aren’t going to be taking this on, right?”

  
Takao rolls his eyes. “I don’t want to, anyway,” he says, looking and sounding like one of his patients.

  
“Wow, _so mature_ , Kazu-chan,” Satsuki says in a theatrical whisper, and slides a sheet in front of him, “here you go, don’t be upset now.”

  
Takao blows her a mock kiss. “Thank you so much, Momoi-san, but I think I should get going, now.” He stands up, pulls his labcoat on. “Shin-chan, I’m heading back to the hospital,” he calls at the door, “are you coming?”

  
Midorima nods, mutters something under his breath, and attempts to put his articles back into his briefcase while also walking towards the door. By the time he gets there, Takao looks like he wants to kill him. Ryouta hears him say, “Could you have taken any longer, Shin-chan,” before the door falls shut behind them.

  
“Well,” Satsuki says in the ensuing silence, broken, intermittently, by Murasakibara’s (surprisingly on-key) humming, “maybe we can start now?”

  
***

  
Kagami’s restaurant is one of those high-end, swanky affairs Ryouta would never be able to afford – unless, of course, he’d listened to his _oneechan_ and continued modelling in high school. Located in Shibuya, the restaurant serves Japanese-international fusion, has an understated, elegant exterior with real bonsai growing indoors – the sort of place described as ‘classy’ on food critic websites and is rated in Michelin stars.

  
It is after hours: almost midnight, and the restaurant is eerily quiet. Ryouta can smell the faint scent of the incense that had been lit earlier: orange and sandalwood, which makes for a surprisingly nice combination. Upon arriving, Kagami lead Ryouta past the main seating hall to an office off the hallway by the kitchen. It is a pretty organized office, as offices go: less cluttered than Ryouta’s, at least. Kagami does all his non-cooking related work out of here, he explains; he lives over the restaurant, in a three-bedroom apartment. Ryouta isn’t sure why he needs three bedrooms, and he isn’t about to ask.

  
“So, um, here’s the video feed from the last three days,” Kagami says, sliding the top of his laptop open and pushing it in front of Ryouta. “It’s completely clean, as far as I can tell, but then, I’m no expert. Maybe you’ll find something I missed.”

  
“You said it’s just food that’s been missing?” Ryouta clicks the video file open, skipping through the portmanteau of recorded images from the restaurant’s CCTVs. At first glance, the feed is clean, but then, things aren’t always what they appear to be.

  
Kagami grimaces, fingers at the nape of his neck again. It must be a nervous tick, a quirk of his personality like the gruff undertone to his voice that sounds like his throat is perpetually scratchy, like a firefighter’s. Maybe it’s because of all the smoke he’s exposed to while cooking.

  
“Yeah,” he says, “stuff like food, and cutlery. It’s really weird, I guess? I mean, if I didn’t know better I’d say I had someone living off me.”

  
Ryouta twirls his pen in his hand. “That doesn’t sound too far-fetched, actually,” he says, “Did you say there was a particular time you noticed things went missing?”

  
Kagami frowns. “In the evening, mostly? Close to closing time. I bet it’s been going on longer than three days? I mean, I noticed because Fukuda – he’s one of my waiters – was taking a milkshake to one of the tables, oh, three nights ago. He says he put it down for a moment, and when he looked back, it was gone. He’s got a tendency to lose things, though, so I didn’t pay too much attention to it, but then, the same thing happened again, the day after. That’s when I noticed the other stuff.”

  
Ryouta finds he is tapping his pen against the desk and stops. “The other possibility is you’ve got a customer with kleptomaniac tendencies. What are your regulars like?”

  
“Mostly old friends,” Kagami says, “and a couple of foreigners – diplomats, that sort of crowd. A lot of them have been coming here for a while; I haven’t really noticed anyone new.”

  
“Okay,” Ryouta says slowly, “so you don’t think it’s any of them.”

  
“No,” Kagami shrugs, “I don’t think so. Unless maybe somebody’s trying to pull one over on me.”

  
“Pull one over on you,” Ryouta repeats.

  
“Ah, how can I explain this,” Kagami makes a face. “I don’t run this place alone, obviously. My coworkers – they’re more like family, I suppose – are the sort of people who enjoy pulling my leg.”

  
“Yeah?” Ryouta can’t help but smile. “That sounds a lot like the people I work with, too.”

  
Kagami grins. It transforms his face from serious(ly intimidating) to something more friendly, almost unguarded. It’s almost sweet – except that it’s also kind of terrifying. “I sort of noticed,” he says, and gets up. “So, um, I’ll let you get to it? Let me know if there’s anything you need.” He pauses, a minute. “Momoi-san said that you’d be willing to stay on site till you figure this out. I’ve got a guest room upstairs – on the first floor – that you can use if you want; come on up whenever you want to crash.”

  
“Say,” Ryouta calls, on impulse, as Kagami is leaving, “what sort of milkshake was it that went missing, do you know?”  
Kagami pauses, hand on the doorjamb. “Uh – I’m not sure. I can try to find out for you, if you like.”

  
“That would be great, thanks,” Ryouta says, as the door is closing, and he rewinds to the beginning of the video feed, making note of the cameras: one out front, two in the back, one in the narrow alley between the restaurant and the tea-shop to its right. There are other cameras, too, inside the main hall, and in the kitchen. Either Kagami is paranoid, Ryouta thinks, or he’s paranoid. Maybe he’s afraid of someone coming to steal his recipes. He wouldn’t be the first overprotective chef Ryouta’s met; trying to part Murasakibara from a recipe is like attempting to divide the Red Sea. A tough call, if you’re not Moses.

  
He goes through the cameras one by one, blowing up the image to fill the whole screen and playing it back, fast-forwarded. The restaurant is busy, that’s for sure. It’s open from one in the afternoon to eleven, on weekdays, and there is a steady stream of visitors from almost the moment it opens to just before closing time.

  
Ryouta learns the faces of Kagami’s regulars: a dark-haired man who wears glasses and suits just a little too big for him, a brunette who looks a little like that one friend of Satsuki’s – Aida Riko – the lead singer of Neko (he looks sort of like a cat, himself), accompanied by the band’s drummer (black haired, and very stoic looking). At one point, Ryouta thinks he’s seen Kiyoshi Teppei and almost spills the cup of coffee Kagami had left him. Then he rewinds the tape and confirms that it is actually Kiyoshi Teppei, after all, and that it is a very small world.

  
At a quarter to two, when the screen is a giant white blur, Ryouta hits pause on the video feed and goes upstairs, the backpack with his change of clothes and toiletries slung over one shoulder. Kagami’s guest room is the first one down the hall; Ryouta is grateful it isn’t too hard to find. He tries not to think of how awkward it would’ve been if he had opened the wrong door.

  
There is a lava lamp – purple and blue – on the bedside table, throwing molten circles of color over the walls. Ryouta sheds his jeans and climbs into his pajama pants, brushes his teeth in the little bathroom adjoining the room. Then he crawls into the bed and passes out, almost immediately.

  
***

  
“So,” Ryouta tells Kagami during a lull in business, leaning against the counter Kagami is working at, “you were right. Your video feed is completely clean. There’s nothing remarkable about it at all.”

  
It is late afternoon: too late for lunch and too early for dinner, and the only customers still in the restaurant are two men having a meeting in one of the corner booths. The majority of the staff is on lunch break; Ryouta can hear the hum of conversation from behind the next door over. Kagami wipes his hands on a dish towel.

  
“I’m not surprised, honestly,” he says, a little ruefully, and folds the last of the egg whites into his soufflé. “It’s like whoever’s doing this is invisible.”

  
“There was always the possibility of your burglar being a _Miracle Holder_. That’s why you got in touch with us, right?”

  
Kagami slides the soufflé into the oven. “Well, yeah,” he says, straightening. “I mean, if they weren’t I really wouldn’t have a problem with a couple of forks and leftovers going missing, you know? I’d just rather know where the stuff’s going.”

  
A low rumble – the sound of a motorcycle engine – sounds by the side door, growing louder and then subsiding. Ryouta hears someone swear under their breath – probably stubbed a toe – and the sound of the door being pushed open. A slim, black-haired man enters the kitchen, a helmet under one arm. He’s got a bag of groceries in hand. Ryouta isn’t surprised he stubbed a toe; what is surprising is that he can see where he is going, given that half his face is obscured by a tumble of hair.

  
“Taiga,” the man calls, “if you’re really going to be so particular about the brand of cocoa beans you want then please, for the sake of all that’s holy, go get them yourself, next time.”

  
He sets the grocery bag on the counter, and turns, noticing Ryouta for the first time.

  
“Himuro-san,” Ryouta says, and if he sounds caught-off guard it’s because he is, “wow, I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  
“I live here,” Himuro tells him, “what are you doing here, Ryouta?”

  
“Working,” Ryouta says, “I’m trying to help Kagami find a thief.”

  
Himuro runs a hand through his hair. “Oh, yes, our wicked little burglar,” he says, “I’m pretty sure it’ll turn out to be an animal, or something.”

  
“If it was an animal,” Kagami grouses, “I would’ve found it already,” and his tone of voice makes clear what exactly would have happened to the animal if he had found it. “Did you find my cocoa beans?”

  
Himuro shoves the bag at him. “Yeah, and it took me four hours,” he mutters, “like I said, next time, get ‘em yourself.” He pulls himself up onto the counter, carefully, to avoid hitting his head against the overhead cabinets. “How’s Atsushi doing?” he asks, fingering the little silver hoop in his right ear, “I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to see him lately.”

  
Ryouta smiles. “Oh, he’s fine. Don’t worry about that, by the way; I’m sure he isn’t upset. You can just pick up where you left off, when you do have the time. He’s that sort of guy, you know?”

  
Himuro nods, slowly, giving Ryouta a considering look. “Well, that’s a relief, hmm.”

  
“Tatsuya,” Kagami says, exasperated, “is this really the time?”

  
“Oh, isn’t it?” Himuro sounds utterly innocent.

  
Ryouta, hoping to avoid getting caught up in an argument, clears his throat. “I’m going to take a look at the outdoor cameras,” he says to no-one in particular, “see you guys in a bit,” and he lets himself out of the side door.

  
The building is three stories tall, with the restaurant on the ground floor and the apartment on the first and second. Like the menu, the building’s design is an interesting mix of East and West: dark wooden slats over the outside walls, a wrap-around balcony. On the right, there is a narrow side-street that cuts between the restaurant and its neighboring teashop. On the left, it’s adjoined to a flower shop. Ryouta circles the building, notepad and pencil in hand, locating the cameras and working out their blind spots.

  
Yesterday’s snowfall is now gray mush collecting in the corners of the street, like dying storm clouds melting away. The biggest blind spot is at the right-hand side bend, where the front of the restaurant meets the side. Ryouta marks it on his diagram.

  
It is dreary and quiet: as if the sounds of the world have been muted by the cold – an uncomfortable, loud silence, completely unnatural in the middle of Tokyo. Plenty of people like winter, in the city. Usually, Ryouta is one of them. Today, he thinks he might prefer autumn: not too cold, not too hot, always lively, because who can resist being outside to watch the world die?

  
It’s not as fun when it’s already dead, of course.

  
As he is turning to go back in, Ryouta glances into the alleyway one last time. Down the alley, by the far corner of the restaurant building, he sees a curved, feathery white tail disappear around the bend.

  
That was a dog’s tail, Ryouta thinks, pursing his lips. Had he imagined it? It’s certainly possible; he’d only seen it for a split second, after all. But a dog – maybe one of the neighbors has one. He should ask Kagami.

  
Ryouta slips his notepad into his jacket pocket, with the pen tucked between the pages. Maybe, he thinks as he opens the door, he had imagined it. On the other hand, if he hadn’t – now that is something to think about. Pausing, briefly, in the doorway, Ryouta navigates through his phone, opening the dial pad. He keys in Satsuki’s number, keeping the phone pressed to his ear as he enters the building, quietly closing the door behind him.

Satsuki picks up on the second ring. “Hey, Ryou-chan,” she says, bright and cheery.

  
“Hey, Momocchi,” Ryouta shoves his socks into his shoes. “I’ve got a favor to ask you.”

  
“Yeah?” Ryouta hears a creak as Satsuki – probably – leans back in her chair. “Well, go on, then. Shoot.”

  
***

  
“None of my neighbors have a dog,” Kagami says when Ryouta asks. He looks a little spooked by the mention of dogs. He chews his lip. “I don’t really like dogs.”

  
“I could’ve been seeing things,” Ryouta says, reassuringly, “don’t freak out?”

  
“Taiga was bitten by a dog, once,” Himuro supplies helpfully, ducking into the office. Kagami shoots him a reproachful look. Himuro says, “By the way, Taiga, Kawahara wants you. Something about the cacciatore – ”

  
“Please tell me he didn’t forget to put the stock in again,” Kagami mutters, “okay, I’m coming.” He looks at Ryouta. “Anything else?”

  
Ryouta shakes his head. “Not at the moment. I’ll let you know if I think of something.”

  
“Thanks,” Kagami says, and follows Himuro out of the office.

  
Ryouta tips his chair back and thinks about what he knows, so far. It’s been three days since Kagami noticed the thieving. The stolen items are usually food, but he’s also missing flatware: napkins, forks, knives, a tablecloth. Whoever is taking the food doesn’t really seem to have a preference for what they pick up, but Kagami’s noticed a liking for finger-food – and meat.

  
There is a muffled thump as the chair’s front legs hit the floor. Maybe, Ryouta thinks, this might just work.

  
In the hallway, he finds Kagami, coming from the direction of the kitchen.

  
“Oh,” Kagami says, placing a hand on Ryouta’s shoulder, “I was just coming to find you. You asked about the milkshakes, remember?”

  
***

  
“Hello,” Ryouta smiles his best ‘how can I help you’ smile, “my name’s Kise Ryouta and I will be your server today – well, tonight. Whoops: my inexperience is showing!”

  
Seated at the table, Aida Riko blows a strand of her hair out of her face. “Great acting, Kise-kun, but you and I both know you don’t actually work here. Also: what’s with the hair color? I have never seen an uglier shade of brown.”

  
Not for the first time, Ryouta wonders why everyone he knows is so – _endearingly_ – pretentious. Aloud, he says, “I take it you’re not ready to order, yet?”

  
Aida glowers. “I already know what I’m supposed to order,” she mutters, “Satsuki told me.” She puts on a bright, falsely cheery grin. “I’ll have the house special, thank you very much.”  
“Would you like chicken or beef, ma’am?”

  
Aida pretends to consider it. “You know what? I don’t care. Whatever, alright? But I want mashed potatoes on the side. Tell Bakagami to season them properly.”

  
Ryouta ducks his head to hide his smile. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

  
Aida huffs, crosses her arms. “Your turn, Junpei.”

  
Ryouta turns to Aida’s dark-haired, bespectacled dinner partner, who he recognizes from the security video. “How about you, sir?”

  
“The vegetarian alfredo, please,” the man says, avoiding Aida’s pointed glare, and breathes in, sharply, through his teeth. “ _Riko_.”

  
She must’ve kicked him under the table, Ryouta thinks, busying himself with writing _(1) vegetarian alfredo_ onto his notepad. “Anything else? Drinks?”

  
“A soda for me,” Aida says, loud in a pointed sort of way. She shoots her companion an acerbic look, as if daring him to argue. He rolls his eyes behind his glasses.

  
“The same – ” he begins, and winces, again.

  
“Junpei,” Aida hisses.

  
She receives a glare, for her trouble. “Fine,” he mutters. “A vanilla milkshake,” and Ryouta hears him add, _not that I’ll be drinking it_ , under his breath.

  
Ryouta would apologize for the inconvenience, but according to Kagami, Aida – and Hyuuga, too – both come to the restaurant at least twice a week. (Apparently, neither of them are very good at cooking.) Ordering something different – for once – isn’t going to hurt them.

  
Hyuuga winces again, this time because Aida has not-so-subtly elbowed him in the side. “Also, I’ve got, um, allergies,” he mumbles, “so can you use this for sweetener?” He slides a non-descript paper sachet across the table.

  
“Of course,” Ryouta says brightly, “I’ll be right back,” and he gives them a nod and a smile before heading in the direction of the kitchen.

  
He slips in through the double-swinging doors, narrowly avoiding Fukuda, who is going the other way. At this time in the evening, the kitchen is a bustle of organized chaos. The sound hits Ryouta in the face: the clang of pots and pans being set down on counters, the higher-pitched clink of glassware on trays, the hiss of hot crockery being plunged into water – the sear of flames – Ryouta hears Himuro shout, _watch it, Furihata, turn that heat down_ , and, over the cacophony of noise in the room, Kagami’s voice saying _I’m still waiting on the quail for table four, Tsuchida, come on, people, pick up the pace here_ –

  
Ryouta pins his order to the spindle. “One house special, one vegetarian alfredo for nine,” he calls, and he can’t help but take a moment to watch the message relay to Kawahara, at the grill station, and Tsuchida, in charge of pasta, before making his way over to collect the drinks for his table. It’s sort of thrilling, he thinks.

  
“I need a lobster for table fourteen,” Fukuda re-enters the kitchen, attaches an order to the spindle, and, “also, chef?” Kagami finishes garnishing a plate of sashimi and turns to look at him.

  
“Yes?”

  
“The customer at seven wants a word with you.”

  
Ryouta tops the milkshake off with cream and slides a straw into Aida’s soda, balancing the drinks on his tray, eyebrows furrowed in concentration – because it – balancing the tray – is harder than his fellow waiters make it look. Kagami precedes him out of the kitchen; as he leaves, Ryouta keeps the door open with a hand, so it doesn’t hit him in the face.  
Instead of walking into the door, he nearly walks into Kagami, who stops, abruptly, half-turning. He’s still got the sashimi in hand, Ryouta notices. He must have brought it out without noticing.

  
“Sorry,” Kagami tells him, a tense little frown creasing his face, “would you take this over to three? I forgot I had it,” and he passes his tray over.

  
“Sure thing,” Ryouta says, and takes the opportunity to set the drinks he is carrying down on an empty table. As he takes the sashimi over to the customer sitting at table three, he makes sure to keep the tray of drinks in his line of sight. It sits on the middle of the white tablecloth, the half-covered straw bobbing up and down in the soda, the tall glasses unmoving.  
The customer at three is a middle-aged woman with severely parted dark hair and an equally severe expression. She has a _shinai_ leaning against her chair, and is reading a book titled _Sword-making Through the Ages_. Ryouta clears his throat and tries to sound as though he isn’t intimidated.

  
“Your sashimi, ma’am?”

  
She moves her book to the side, barely sparing him a glance.

  
“Anything else?” Ryouta asks, politely.

  
“No, thank you,” she says, absently.

  
Ryouta ducks his head, one eye on the tray of drinks he’d left unattended. Still there, he notes, so far. “Well, let me know if there’s anything you need, ma’am,” he says, moving away. Halfway to the table, he runs into Fukuda, who says,

“Hey, Kise-san, do you know what happened to number three’s sashimi – ”

  
Over Fukuda's shoulder, Ryouta sees the tray of drinks slide, almost imperceptibly, towards the edge of the table. It might just be his imagination, but the milkshake seems to hover a little, off the surface of the tray.

  
“Yeah,” Ryouta jerks a thumb back in the direction he’d come from. “Already delivered. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some drinks to rescue,” and he brushes past him, walking as fast as he can without actually running. There is a dull clink as, abruptly, the milkshake stops hovering. Ryouta closes his fingers around the tray’s edges, aware of his heart beating erratically in his throat.

  
That was close. He lifts the tray, willing his breathing to settle. A quick scan of the periphery reveals nothing out of the ordinary, but then, that’s to be expected. The video feed was clean, after all.

  
At least, Ryouta thinks, as he carries the drinks over to where Aida and Hyuuga are waiting, he knows he’s on the right track. He places the tray down on the table, setting Aida’s soda in front of her, and milkshake by Hyuuga.

  
“Sorry for the wait,” he says, and cheerfully ignores the death-glare Aida sends in his direction. Death glares don’t faze Ryouta. Frightening as Aida might be, she’s got nothing on Akashi.

  
***

  
By ten thirty, things have started winding down. Slowly, the tide reverses, with more people leaving the restaurant than coming in. The tables empty: first three, then seven, then fourteen.

  
A quarter to eleven, and Aida finally gets up, having lingered at the table for nearly three hours. She’s tired, and it shows; she grumbles as she pulls her coat on, snaps at Hyuuga to _ask for the check already, Junpei, you moron_ , and tells Ryouta _it’s far too late for you to look so chipper_ when he brings back their change. She almost drags Hyuuga from the building, leaving behind her half-eaten steak (the mashed potatoes are all gone). The milkshake sits virtually untouched. It is a sorry excuse for a milkshake, now – lukewarm and probably too sweet.

  
Ryouta walks Aida and Hyuuga to the door, thanks them for their patronage like the good (fake) employee he is.

  
“Are you thinking of making this your real job,” Aida says, sniffing. She shakes Ryouta’s hand, presses a USB drive to his palm. “From Satsuki. Bye-bye, Kise-kun, hope you’re not here the next time we come back.”

  
Ryouta is half-way back to the table and semi-distracted by a text from Aomine when the mystery thief makes their move. Ryouta has the table in his peripheral vision, though, so he catches the moment the milkshake glass floats clean off the tabletop. The tablecloth shifts – it looks almost as if it’s been blown by a passing wind (or the air-conditioner) – and the milkshake disappears underneath.

  
The timing is perfect – the maître-d is seeing off the last of the night’s customers, the rest of the waitstaff is either in the kitchen or clearing tables – and if Ryouta had not specifically been keeping an eye out, he would have missed the moment entirely.

  
Ryouta approaches the table, feeling strangely nervous.

  
_This is it._

  
He crouches, lifts up the tablecloth –

  
– and finds himself looking into a thin brown face dominated by a pair of electric blue eyes.

  
“Ah,” Ryouta says, “I had a feeling it might turn out to be you. Where’s Nigou, hmm?”

  
***

  
There’s a moment of shocked silence – and then Kuroko tries to run, because of course.

  
He would have made it, too, if not for the milkshake interfering with his Miracle. When he realizes he can’t disappear anymore, he shrinks further under the table, blue eyes wide and thoroughly mistrustful under his shock of powder-blue hair.

  
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Ryouta says, trying to look and sound nonthreatening. “I just want to talk.”

  
There is no response. Ryouta is sure that if he could, Kuroko would retreat even further.

  
Ryouta purses his lips, shifts so that he is his usual blond, cat-eyed, ~~devilishly handsome~~ self. “You remember me, don’t you? Kise Ryouta? From the park.”

  
Kuroko’s eyes widen even further. His face pales, badly bitten lips going white. “You – you’re,” he begins, and trails off, voice high with fear and desperation.

  
“Just like you,” Ryouta finishes for him, “yeah. I am.” Impulsively, he reaches out.

  
Kuroko flinches, like he’s expecting to be hit.

  
Ryouta freezes, throat closing. He draws his hand back to keep from squeezing Kuroko’s shoulder.

  
“I want to help,” Ryouta says, “I’m really not going to hurt you. I promise.”

  
Kuroko says, in a very small, trembling voice that makes Ryouta feel like the absolute worst person alive, “what did you _do_ to me?”

  
“Um, Kise-san,” Kagami’s voice resounds from somewhere above their heads, mercifully sparing Ryouta the need to reply, “I assume you’re hiding under the table because you’ve found the thief.”

  
To Ryouta's horror, Kuroko’s eyes well up.

  
Kagami’s hand draws the other side of the tablecloth up and out of the way, his face – forked eyebrows drawn in an impressive scowl – appearing in the opening. He catches Kise’s eye first, then he sees Kuroko.

  
The belligerence on his face melts away, replaced by bewilderment and more than a little concern. “Oh,” he says, “you’re a _kid_.”

  
Kuroko takes one look at him and promptly bursts into tears.

  
***

  
In a surprisingly unsurprising twist, Kuroko takes to Kagami almost immediately.

  
Ryouta’s not sure what does it – is it _really_ that obvious that underneath the gruff exterior Kagami is basically a giant teddy bear? –

\- or maybe it was the emphatic, “why didn’t you just _ask_ for the food? I’d have been happy to feed you, God knows you need it – ”

  
Either way – Ryouta is not sure of the exact sequence of events, only that he is strangely irritated by the whole situation – in a few short moments Kuroko is seated in front of a truly horrifying amount of spaghetti. His face is washed, his hands are clean, and he is being fussed over by the entirety of Kagami’s restaurant staff.

  
Ryouta would be more confused – and weirded out – by the whole state of affairs, but it’s well and truly past midnight and he’s too tired to care.

  
Nigou is in the kitchen, too, despite Kagami’s halfhearted protests. Ryouta is still not sure where Nigou had been hiding, just that he’d been found raising a ruckus at the restaurant’s back door, demanding to be let in. The dog is now eating more expensive steak than Ryouta has ever had in his life, courtesy of Himuro, who unlike Kagami, is not deathly afraid of dogs.

  
In Kagami’s office, Ryouta plugs the USB drive into Kagami’s desktop and clicks open Satsuki’s files.

  
“Well,” he tells Kagami, scrolling past a grainy security-cam capture of Kuroko, “here you have it. Your thief is eight-year-old Kuroko Tetsuya.” He pauses, gives Kagami a considering look, “I’ve got dibs on giving him a codename, so I’m going with _the Phantom_ – do you think that’s too cool for a scrawny little kid?”

  
Kagami's only reply is a flat glare, so Ryouta waves a hand and moves on.

  
“We don’t know a whole lot about him; obviously, he wasn’t listed in our database. Case in point - we don’t have a clue what happened to his family – but he’s been in and out of foster care for years, probably because it’s really hard to keep track of a kid who can disappear. The funny thing is – I actually ran into him at Yoyogi Park a couple of weeks ago. He gave me the slip, of course – I wasn’t sure how to go about looking for him – or where to start, even.”

  
“Right,” says Kagami, fingers at the nape of his neck, “so, um, what’s going to happen to him now?”

  
“It’s actually not up to me,” Ryouta tells him, “For one thing, the organization I’m affiliated with,” he gives Kagami a wry smile, “doesn’t actually have any _real_ legal authority – and anyway, you hired me on a private basis. Also, as difficult as it is to believe, Akashicchi doesn’t _actually_ recruit this young.”

  
Kagami looks through the office’s open door to the kitchen, where Kuroko is now feeding Nigou his spaghetti, to Himuro’s amusement. Furihata is not so amused, protesting “Kuroko-kun, are we really sure spaghetti is safe for dogs to eat?” loud enough that he can be heard across two rooms and a hallway.

  
Ryouta doesn’t know Kagami all that well, so he could be reading him wrong, but he swears the expression on Kagami’s face is _wistful_.

  
“So then – ,” Kagami says. His voice is soft – now Ryouta is _sure_ he isn’t imagining the wistfulness. “I guess it would be back to the orphanage, again, huh.”

  
Ryouta smiles, leans back in his chair.

  
“I mean, sure,” he says, “but is that really the only option?”

  
***

  
“Well, Kagami-san,” Takao says, once he’s completed his examination, “apart from malnourishment, Kuroko-kun is perfectly healthy. A few good meals and he’ll be completely fine.”

  
He ruffles Kuroko’s hair. “Liking your new home, champ?”

  
Kuroko, shining eyes fixed on Kagami, nods shyly in response to the question.

  
He looks better already, Ryouta notes – his face has filled out, a little, and there’s a new energy in the way he hops off the hospital bed and goes to slide his hand into Kagami’s.

  
“Thank you,” Kagami says, fingers tightening around Kuroko’s. It’s literally been a couple of days since the paperwork went through, but Ryouta swears the bond between them is a tangible thing.

  
“He does, however, need to be on a catch-up vaccination schedule,” Takao says.

  
“I’d hoped to avoid any, um, needles at this visit,” Kagami says, the hand around Kuroko’s tightening further.

  
Sensing a possible lecture ~~/argument~~ , Ryouta says, “Right – that’s my cue to leave.”

  
Takao raises a pointed eyebrow at him. “I’m not really sure what you’re doing here in the first place, so feel free, Ryou-chan.”

  
“All of you are so ruude,” Ryouta sniffs. Takao laughs. “But you especially, Takaocchi. Bye-bye, then, see you when I see you, etc.”

  
He’s halfway down the hallway when Kagami calls, “Kise-san, wait a second.”

  
Ryouta turns.

  
Kagami is rubbing the back of his neck again. “I wanted to say thanks,” he says, “for recommending Takao- _sensei_ , and for all of your other help. I really appreciate it.”

  
“Um,” Ryouta says, “don’t mention it? I mean, it was my job, and also Takaocchi is literally the only pediatrician I know? Sorry if he turns out to be horrible.”

  
“I heard that,” Takao yells, from inside his office. “I’ll have you know I am an absolutely brilliant pediatrician!” Ryouta hears Kuroko giggle.

  
Kagami looks like he wants to say more but can’t quite find the words.

  
Ryouta, taking pity on him, says, “Seriously, don’t mention it. I’m happy to have helped and I think you’re doing a really good deed. That kid is lucky to have you. And also – if you ever need anything, you know where to find us.”

  
“Well, if you’re ever in the mood for ~~free~~ heavily discounted gourmet meals, you know where to find me,” Kagami says, smiling. “don’t be a stranger, Kise-san.”

  
“If we’re going to be friends, call me Kise, Kagamicchi,” Ryouta rolls his eyes, “or Ryouta, or Ryou-chan – I’m not really picky.”

  
Kagami’s smile freezes on his face. His ridiculous eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “On second thought, I don’t think I ever want to see you again.”

  
“Sorry, Kagamicchi,” Ryouta says brightly, “you’re most definitely stuck with me now.”

  
***

  
Akashi leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers. “Well, Ryouta,” he says, “I suppose this is where I tell you ‘ _good work, detective_ ,’ or something equally cliché and uninspired?”

  
Ryouta lifts one shoulder, lets it drop. “Nice try, Akashicchi, but it was, as always, a team effort.” He shoots a grin at Satsuki, standing at Akashi’s shoulder, and gets a thumbs up in return.

  
Akashi hums, gives Ryouta a considering look. “You know, at one point I was certain you were going to take that boy home yourself. I believe you have a special soft spot for kicked puppies.”

  
“Wow,” Ryouta says, neglecting to mention he had considered it, however briefly. “I didn’t know it was possible for _future watch_ to be wrong?” He also refrains – out of a well-developed sense of self-preservation – from mentioning _Akashi’s_ soft spot for kicked puppies, which is, of course, the whole reason Ryouta is standing here, in the first place.

  
The thing is, Ryouta had given up the idea almost as soon as it had occurred to him, for a number of reasons:

  
There is that he knows – despite the brevity of their acquaintance – that Kagami is an infinitely better candidate for caretaker/foster parent than Ryouta could ever hope to be. There is also the fact that Kuroko has a clear and obvious (and incomprehensible) dislike for Ryouta. And finally – there had been no denying Kuroko’s glittering blue eyes when Kagami cleared his throat and said, gruffly, “how would you like to live with me, Kuroko-kun?”

  
“You surprise me, Ryouta,” Akashi says, mildly, “the future is never set in stone.”

  
“We can’t all be popular with everyone, Ryou-chan,” says Satsuki, getting to the heart of what Ryouta is thinking (as always). “But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll make friends with Kuroko-kun someday.”

  
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up, if I were you, Ryouta,” Akashi says, smirking.

  
“I seem to remember you being meaner, Akashicchi,” Ryouta tells him, pulling an exaggerated mournful face, “I think you might be losing your edge.”

  
Akashi laughs. It is brief and genuine and warms Ryouta to the marrow.

  
Not for the first time, Ryouta thinks he’s far too gone, and there is absolutely no chance to save him. Why bother trying? He likes where he is, here in Akashi’s office with Akashi’s blazing smile directed at him – like standing in sunlight on a cold winter morning. Like anticipation, just before plummeting into the great unknown.

  
“It’s a good thing, then, that I have you, Ryouta – to keep me sharp.”

\- end.

**Author's Note:**

> /coughs, clears throat,
> 
> Well. Guess who slipped and fell right back into kurobasu hell?? (not that I ever _left_ kurobasu hell, let's be fair)  
> \- ahem. I have no excuses for this (and am pretty sure no-one will read it!), but what the hell.
> 
> So if you're here and got to this point: I hope you enjoyed, comments are always appreciated, and thank you so very much for reading.


End file.
